


like-minded beasts

by buckyjerkbarnes



Series: one for the history books [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Fluff, Gen, Humor, LITERAL FLUFF SINCE THERE IS A KITTEN, M/M, Mittens just wants to see the world, Steve and Bucky are practically cameos, T'Challa is the Purest and deserves nice things, THERE'S A KITTEN, This is me, can be read as a stand-alone fic, giving him ALL THE NICE THINGS, t'challa and a kitten take brooklyn 2k17, this is a T'Challa story, this is the purest™ thing i've ever written omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6888178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckyjerkbarnes/pseuds/buckyjerkbarnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, you like cats?" </p><p> </p><p>[In which Black Panther becomes smitten with the Steve and Bucky's kitten, Mittens. That's it. That's the story.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	like-minded beasts

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. None at all. Enjoy this piece of tooth-rotting fluff <3

_Brooklyn, 2017_

*

The furthest into New York he had ever been was the United Nations building in Manhattan, with its sharp rectangular shape and its perpetually glittering windows, the half moon line up of vibrant flags whipping in the wind. Never had T'Challa had the incentive to quietly move through the morning light of Brooklyn, a vast step away from the chrome and the spires and the skyscrapers of the city. Brooklyn, specifically Brooklyn Heights, was a quaint region of red-brick buildings and skinny trees planted on either side of the sidewalk. It was nothing like his home, like Wakanda, but homes came in all shapes and forms. 

Brooklyn just so happened to be the exact cut fit for James Barnes and Steve Rogers. 

A grand total of nine months had elapsed since Barnes had been deemed free of any sort of trigger phrases and post-traumatic stress-inducing memories. Although the lengthy chain of acts Barnes was made to complete were not, themselves, deleted, as he was boarding a small plane to return to the US, T’Challa could see a vastly positive difference in the man who arrived in Wakanda nearly broken and the man with his arm slung securely around Captain Roger’s waist, the beaming ghost of a smile on his mouth.

Part of his penance for trying to kill this innocent man was checking to be sure that smile had only grown wider and more pure as time rolled by beneath their feet. He had a team working around the clock to be sure the Rogers-Barnes household remained virtually off the grid, that no one who could get word to the Secretary of State had an iota of a clue that two of the country’s most wanted men were back on their home-turf. Not even Stark.

(Especially not Stark. Even if, officially, all the fires from _that_ fiasco had been extinguished.)

After all the pair had sacrificed, after all the blood and the sweat and the death that had passed before their eyes, T’Challa held firm to his belief that they deserved a slice of solitude in the biting, unforgiving world just outside their door. They were good men, he could see that clearly, now, with no red-tinged vengeance to blind him. Both had the right for a few nice things.

He hoped, his thumb straying as it often did to his father’s silver ring he wore on his left hand, supplying a home and an upgrade for Barnes’ arm was a decent start of such rewards. T’Challa hoped, also, that T’Chaka might forgive him since he saw the error of his ways and came to such an eye-opening conclusion before too much irreparable damage could be done.

T’Challa cleared his throat, catching sight of himself in the shining window-front of a menagerie, not yet open for business. His eyes were a bit damp around the lower edges. He spared a moment to brush a thumb beneath his eyes, sniffing so softly the sound of it was easily caught and carried away by the wind. He wore civilian clothes- ivory slacks, a dark navy shirt with a black, thick pea coat buttoned up the line of his chest. His shoes of choice were practical boots tied securely in-case he needed to make a quick pursuit of one person or another. 

For something to do and a means of arranging his thoughts into neat lines once more, T’Challa tugged out his phone and checked the distance to his destination: less than one-tenth of a mile. He tucked the device away, leaving one of his hands in his pocket and casually swinging the other at this side. Though October was only in its first week, the temperatures so far North were a great contrast to what he was used to- the cold breath of Brooklyn snapped at the back of his neck and made him feel as though he’d been made to stay in a freezer. T’Challa actually shuddered to think of what it must be like in Russia, right then.

His pondering of the weather almost served to distract him enough to stride by a kitten.

He faltered in his tracks, turning to watch the little thing bounce down the sidewalk with a happy-smugness to her stride. T’Challa could see a ring of blue around her throat- a collar. Twice, he made a soft kissing sound to catch the kitten’s attention, features going as pliable as melted butter when the kitten turned curiously, tilting her head at him. She let out a squeaking mewl, pausing, too.

The creature was small, about the size of his hand fully spread, its tail nearly as long as its body. "Come here," T'Challa murmured gently, patting his thigh as he squatted down. 

The creature, the bearer of large blue eyes and small, small ears, hesitantly made a wide arch around him, her tail twitching. Left, right. Right, left. He smiled at it, the curl to his mouth growing only wider when it got close enough to examine the blue collar fastened at its throat. There was a silver bell hanging from it, as well as a tag: MITTENS, it declared. There was no address, nor a number for him to dial. 

"Mittens, hmm?" T'Challa asked the little thing seriously. "That is quite the impressive name." 

Mittens meowed, seeming to recognize the sound of her title. She bumped her head against his knee, only just able to reach such a height by stretching to the point her spine was straightened at a seventy degree angle. The little fur ball was well-fed and well-groomed, her fur thick and soft, easy to run a gentle hand through; she was all white, with black patches of fur that resembled socks stretching up her short legs. The name was fitting and he told her so, earning another round of pleased purring. 

"I feel you have owners who inflate your ego, yes?" 

More purring. 

“I shall take that as your agreement.”

There was no way he could simply leave her wandering around: with a pretty coat like hers, she was liable to get plucked up by a greedy set of hands and sold to a strange home. He could, however, locate the nearest animal shelter and see if there was a kitten of Mitten’s description that was reported missing. If not, well. One of the scientists on his payroll had a young child who had been wishing for a pet of sorts for sometime- he could carry out such a desire, then.

Before T’Challa could land on an exact path he would chose, his stomach let out a snarl of hunger. He hadn’t even realized he’d skipped out on breakfast. The last meal he’d consumed had been in the sky on his private jet some seven hours previous.

“How would you feel accompanying me for a meal?”

Mittens, by means of sheer determination, pulled herself up onto his leg, climbing up his shirt and planting her feet on his chest and with her back feet gripping the material of his coat over his right breastbone. She bumped her nose against his, giving the skin directly above his upper lip a tentative lick.

“Another yes, then.”

* 

He'd heard, in passing once, that although it was not Seattle, New York had pretty good coffee to offer.

T'Challa had a hand curled under Mitten's belly, holding her close with his fingers idly quirking through the silk-soft fur beneath her jingling collar. Hardly anyone spared him a glance, and those that did simply gave him a beaming, fond smile. He had no doubt, from a respectable distance, the few security agents who trailed him virtually wherever it was he went were watching with raised brows. He turned into a café lit golden, a touch crowded for the breakfast crawl, but otherwise relatively quiet.

"Hello," the cashier greeted him warmly, her big green eyes widening with the sort of joy most found at the sight of small animals. "Oh my goodness what a lovely little thing!"

He tipped a smile down at Mittens, carrying it up to the young woman handling the counter. “She’s a good companion,” T’Challa agreed. “A very good listener.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the cashier chuckled. “What may I get for you this morning?”

In the end, with a fleeting look at the menu written in chalk, T’Challa opted for a platter of pancakes and the tallest cup of coffee they could fill. He took his brew black with only a single pack of sugar just to knock the completely bitter edge off. Mittens took up a post in his right pocket, her front paws and her head poking out as fished out a credit card from his wallet.

“You can grab a seat, if you’d like,” the cashier said, still smiling. She had cooed at Mittens, tender and sweet, when she’d thought T’Challa’s attention to be trained on his phone. He’d received a message from Sam Wilson over an hour ago: _is this u?_  with the photo of a small black panther cub attached.

 _Don’t you have a grown up job you need to be doing_? T’Challa typed in return.

Mere moments later, as though to accentuate T’Challa’s point, Wilson replied: _Denial is more than a river in Egypt, ur highness._

He rolled his eyes, huffing.

“Here you are,” the cashier said, crossing the room to deposit his tray down before him at his table beside the stretch of windows lining the front of the establishment. “You and your little friend have a good day, alright?”

T’Challa bowed his head at her. “Please do the same, miss.”

She did a playful little curtsy and was gone. He had no idea if she knew who he really was, if she had seen his face on the news in the last few months or if she lived beneath a particularly shady rock and thought him to just be a man with an accent, far from home. Either way, he did not think that mattered, as she’d placed a shallow saucer of milk for Mittens on his tray.

He plucked the fur ball from his pocket, chuckling softly as she shook out her fur. She gave a full-body shudder, from the sweet pink tip of her nose to the white line of her tail. The moment she caught sight of the milk, she was humming contentedly, descending on the treat and lapping up the white substance with gusto. 

*

He found his person drawn to the smell of salt, to the chatter of gulls and the beat of small crests lapping at the side of a promenade. 

Out of a gene-deep instinct, Mittens hissed at the sight of water, receding yet again into the deep pocket of his coat. 

"It's not so bad, little friend," he murmured. The sun had lifted its lazy head above the buildings in the distance, Manhattan singing with the industrial noises of a day in full-swing. He could see the blue-bronze figure of Lady Liberty, serenely welcoming new souls into her city, quietly welcoming back the old, too. He stood near the wrought iron gate lining the water, keeping folk off the line of thick green grass sloping down to the iron waters. 

A woman seven benches to his left was surrounded by squat, beady-eyed pigeons. Her hair was as silver as the water of the East River, a pair of half-moon glasses settled on the end of her nose. It took her a moment, but she looked away from her hooting friends to dig into her wicker purse and she tugged out a little baggie of bread crumbs. 

With a grand flourish, she ripped the bag open and allowed the chunks of bread to fly- the pigeons went wild, cooing and humming their approval loud enough for Mittens to pop her head out of his pocket. He felt her backside wiggle with want, with the desire to tear one or more of the birds into a pile of feathers. T'Challa clicked his tongue sharply at her, settling a light, but restricting hand over the lump she formed against his side. "If you wanted something to eat, you should have spoken up." 

Mittens meowed and it was a grouchy sound. 

"No, you did not say anything earlier," he said back, patient. "Or else I would have gotten you more than just milk." 

She huffed, as if countering  _no you wouldn't have_. 

"We have to stick together, you and I. We're like-minded beasts with our souls bound to the natural world, to the night." He thought about pulling out his phone and searching for the nearest place that sold dairy products, but believed it would be best to make her sweat it out a bit. "Over-indulgence is not something one should frequently take part in if they can help it." 

Like she could read his thoughts, Mittens sank the claws of her front left paw into his wrist, nipping at his thumb with her small, razor-sharp teeth. 

He did not even wince, although she drew small pin-pricks of blood to his skin's surface. "As I said," T'Challa muttered, a touch conspiratorial. "Like-minded beasts."

*

It was choice made early in his day, to turn off any sort of objective switch in his mind. T'Challa allowed his feet to guide him along the crackled sidewalk, for how many blocks, he did not know.

After an hour of mindlessly strolling, murmuring comments about the scenery to his furry companion every few blocks, T'Challa found himself standing at the emerald edge of Brooklyn Bridge Park. He had no trouble guessing why the chunk of land had been gifted such a name as the iconic bridge, herself, was planted at the far edge of it, a worn stretch of cream blocks going a touch black at the edges from decades upon decades of weathering. The wiry fingers of the structure came to a neat knot atop the pair of marble arches that offered an entrance and an exit into the city.

The feeling of peace had stuck with him since the waterfront, only growing weightier when he realized this peace had turned into comfortable solitude. There was something grounding about being just outside one of the largest cities in the world and having a note of anonymity. The sky was open and robin's egg blue, fat cotton-ball clouds racing their plump companions across the horizon. Joggers ran their normal routes without taking note of him; mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers and sisters and brothers strode about, laughing and taking in pleasure in the day; older folk perched comfortably on the various benches scattered throughout the park, just watching the world pass them by without a touch of hurry in their bodies. 

Here, T'Challa was not a king. 

Here, T'Challa was a man enjoying the small gifts presented by nature with his fellow men and women. 

With a kitten, which just so happened to be an additional bonus. 

The coffee in his grasp was lukewarm by this point, but he drank it, still. His father had taught him to value what he had, even if it was something as tiny as, in this instance, a cup of coffee he'd paid two dollars for. He drank and walked on.  

He spotted the gaggle of children clad in clean white uniforms, cotton belts of various colors ranging from white to blue tied at their hips. A man, who had to be in his early forties just judging by the wrinkles around his eyes and the streaks of gray in his hair, stood at the head of the group, legs pressed together, hands folded in-front of him. Interest piqued, T'Challa moved a bit closer, but not so close as to be considered threatening by onlookers. There were others watching, too, parents of these children, a few older siblings sitting cross-legged in the grass playing on their phones waiting for the lesson to conclude.

The outdoor karate class seemed to be a course for beginners, as most wobbled on their feet whenever a little kick was presented and they were asked to copy the movement. None could be older than twelve. A red headed boy was particularly enthusiastic, letting out battle cries each time he swung his leg or threw out his fist, a pale girl with freckles dotting her cheeks was executing each move with an intensity he associated with one trying to solve a particularly difficult mathematical equation in very little time. They were endearing to watch. He took a sip of his coffee, withholding a scowl as the cooling brew drifted down his throat and settled in his belly. 

Though the entire display of children trying their best to become the next Jackie Chan or whoever was considered a respectable icon of martial arts in their youthful eyes was quite entertaining, he could not help but let his attention stray to one little girl. She was smaller than the rest, the bones in her cheeks prominent and her poof of black curls were tied back into a bun atop her head. She was at the back of the class, straining to see over the shoulder of a particularly broad girl and a willowy boy. The instructor raised his arms, positioning his hands in the stance of a chop. A swish through the air, a little burst of noise to propel the motion forward and instill a bit of fear in the one being chopped.

The children mimicked him, noise and all.

Then again.

The girl's stance was a bit weak, but this was to be expected from one so young. She had the potential to be mighty, if she kept pursuing further tactics of self-defense.

Mittens had wriggled from under the collar of his jacket, clawing her way up his neck to perch on his shoulder. It surprised him, only a little, given how she could be no more than three pounds, that she was capable of sitting on his shoulder without wobbling in the least.

It was Mittens that had the girl across the park flicking her eyes to him. She paused mid-chop, her arms tucked a little too close to her ribs, hands too low. The white uniform was much too large for her petite frame, the excess material flapping around her wrists. T'Challa tightened the grip he had on his styrofoam cup, flicking the little tab down on it to keep his brew from sloshing out as he turned his torso, planted his feet firmly, and arranged his hands in the manner of the instructor.

After a moment, the girl copied him, following through with the chop for the fifth time.

The instructor noticed her and appeared to call out a compliment across the heads of the other students.

The girl beamed.

T'Challa ducked his head, raising a hand to brush his fingers down Mitten's back.

* 

"If I cannot locate your owners," T'Challa said to Mittens, hands folded on his lap as the fluff ball chewed contentedly on a flounder filet the chef of a quaint seafood place had been generous enough to chop into crisp, kitten-size cubes. "I think I might take you home with me. I believe with a bit of training, you could deliver things or maybe sniff out poison. You've got the potential to be impressive, little friend." 

Mittens coughed up a small bone, her fur standing on end. She grimaced, seeming to shrug as she dove back into her dish.

"Waiter," T'Challa called, raising a hand and an unimpressed eyebrow. "I think I'll have the check now, if you please. No, no. It's no rush." 

*

The pet store was tucked away between a law-firm and a thrift store. Even tucked in his pocket, wool-lined and thick, Mittens was starting to shiver from exposure to the cool air as the day continued to unfold.

“We’ll fix that right up,” T’Challa assured her, buffing a digit beneath her chin.

She let out a shaky whimper, burrowing down as low as possible.

T’Chaka had never allowed him to keep a pet, as they had traveled too much, even when T’Challa was young. “It would not be fair, my son, for you to move all over the globe as your companion remained in one place. I would not wish the opportunity for a bond to form to be missed.”  

Mittens adored the sweater he’d plucked out of the surprisingly extensive line offered by the store. It was a simple yellow thing made of thick yarn that was sure to keep the cold off her.

She looked like an elongated lemon, something he delightfully told her through his soft giggles.

It was Mittens who took a turn at being unimpressed, nipping at his earlobe.

“I can take the sweater back as quick as I gave it to you, little friend,” T’Challa warned without heat, tipping his head in the direction of his left shoulder where she balanced herself yet again. He bumped his nose against the side of her face, smiling when she nudged him right back.

No more utterances of annoyance left her, a fact that left him endlessly smug.

* 

By five that afternoon, when the sky had started to become a ripe pink, the true reason for his coming to Brooklyn returned to the forefront of his mind and he made a U-turn in the direction of the Rogers-Barnes household. He knew the place to be three floors, delicate black trimming along the roof with tenderly-kept flower boxes blooming in the upstairs windows. T’Challa did not arrive until nearly six, as he’d been several miles to the north and had to double back through the park and past the promenade.

He was glad he’d not offered Barnes or Rogers a precise drop-in time, murmuring as much to Mittens as he climbed the four steps up to the neatly painted door. T’Challa raised his hand to knock just as the front door ripped open and Barnes came plowing out right into him. 

" _Oof_ ," Barnes grunted, taking the blow to his non-vibranium arm. He reared back in surprise, hair tied in a small bun at the back of his head, stray brown strands fluttering around his cheekbones. The hand not holding Mittens had shot out to steady the other man. "Your highness. Uh, how have you been?" 

T'Challa scratched Mittens behind the left ear, unable to keep from smiling as the little thing purred up a storm. He lowered his hand from Bucky’s forearm. "I have been well, Mr. Barnes-"

"Bucky," Barnes said unconsciously, staring with narrowed eyes at Mittens. The kitten meowed cheerfully. 

"-and the period of mourning for my father has come to a close. My people and I are stronger, now, and, I think, shall continue to gather strength. And you? Are you well?" 

Barnes didn't seem to have heard a word he said, blinking back into reality with a little shudder. "Yeah, yeah, I'm alright. As good as I can be. Can I ask you a question, though?" 

He raised an eyebrow. "You just offered an askance." 

A roll of pale-gray irises. They focused immediately back on Mittens. "Another, then." T'Challa stamped down on his little grin, waving Barnes on. "Did you steal my cat?" 

T'Challa blinked, genuinely surprised at the abrupt change of subject. " _Your_ cat?" 

"Yeah," Bucky said, reaching out and finding the little spot on the scruff of Mittens’ neck that made her go limp and wide-eyed, the noises coming from her throat practically roars of contented thunder. " _My_ cat. Steve burnt our breakfast this morning and left the window open by the sink to let out the smoky-smell. Fast forward an hour and we're emptying her litter box, which always irks her by the way. I don't know- you're the cat expert, maybe you get why that is?" T'Challa, admittedly, had no idea. "Anyway, when she didn't come bursting around the corner like normal, I started lookin' for her and then Steve got back from getting groceries. We've been tearing apart the house for hours."

He sheepishly offered Mittens to Barnes, gently lowering the creature into Barnes's embrace. T'Challa scratched at the back of his head, buffing his short nails at the nape of his neck as he gave Barnes a run-down of the day he'd spent with Mittens: picked her up on the street around eight-fifteen, took her for a mug of coffee at nine, swung by the waterfront around ten-forty, was in Brooklyn Bridge Park just after noon, eating lunch by two, and so on. With each anecdote, Barnes only seemed to grow more amused. 

"What is it?" T'Challa prompted carefully. 

"Sam was right," Barnes said, the edges of his voice cracking with repressed laughter. "You  _do_ have a thing for cats. You even bought her a little _outfit_." Barnes stepped out of the doorway, jerking his head into the bowels of the brownstone. He shoulders were shaking. 

T'Challa put on an air of being un-amused. "As I said, the Black Panther has been a protector of Wakanda for centuries," he sniffed. "And besides-," they paused in the living room, a few feet apart. "-your pet is a fine friend to explore an unfamiliar community with." 

Barnes snorted. "If you wanted a play-date with Mittens, you could have asked, pussy cat." 

"Buck!" abruptly rang Captain Roger's voice from the second floor, the sound of his footsteps growing closer as he hurried down the stairs. He came up short at the sight of T'Challa, who nodded at him in greeting. The poor man looked like he'd never known the touch of a hairbrush, his golden locks sweeping every direction and his socks slipping down around his ankles. "Your highness! I'm so sorry, but we've been looking for-" 

Barnes held up Mittens in what T'Challa, admittedly, could only call a Rafiki-esque move from  _The Lion King_. Roger's mouth dropped open. " _Mittens_?" 

"T'Challa, here, found her roaming the streets," Barnes told his partner, lowering the kitten to the ground so she could scamper to Rogers, butting her head against the open hand he immediately offered her. "They had an extremely productive day running around Brooklyn." 

"Running around-?" Rogers spluttered. T'Challa had met a great deal of people in his life: foreign dignitaries, prime ministers, high-level financiers, the Pope, even. Seeing Captain America jab a stern finger at a kitten, actual upset on his features as he crouched further down to her level was completely and utterly  _surreal_. "You are only five months old, little miss. Your Papa and I have talked to you about sneaking out. It's a big bad world out there." Rogers flicked his eyes to T'Challa, smiling with a hint of teeth. "I'm glad you're the one who found her." 

T'Challa smiled, shrugging. Something in him warmed at the inference that Mittens was basically Barnes and Roger's child. "She found me." 

"Lucky, that," Bucky agreed, the most relaxed he'd ever been in T'Challa's presence. His clothes were loose and comfortable-looking, all soft materials. Every few moments, Rogers and Barnes caught each other’s eyes, practically glowing in the light of one another. Barnes looked, very nearly, like the young man he’d once glimpsed on a film reel from the nineteen forties.

The weight of his penance did not sit so heavily within his gut at the sight.

*

Later, as he was sinking into the seat of his private jet, just as his pilot was announcing take-off would be within the next two minutes, his phone pinged. 

 _Omg this is the greatest day of my life_ , the message read. There was a cat emoji and a laughing-crying face paired to express the apparent amusement Wilson was feeling at the moment. Attached to the text? An image snapped on the sly of Mittens perched on T'Challa's shoulder, her tail coiled near his neck, lying next to the gold pendant resting close to his throat. He had to admit there was a slightly smitten look on his face as he was smirking at the way Mittens leaned into him, batting a paw at Bucky and Steve if either tried to move her. Small but mighty. 

There was another ping, still from Wilson, but this time, it was a link. 

He knew it was foolish to tap it with his thumb, having been the bunt of such hi-jinks before. 

Still, T’Challa really should have expected the video that loaded before him to be a three hour compilation of the Best Cat Videos of YouTube. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> I actually am in love with T'Challa and after Sam said the thing in the car- "So, you like cats?"- I couldn't stop picturing him just being tackled by a giant pile of kittens. I seriously CANNOT wait until the independent Black Panther film comes out in 2018 like HOLY CRAP MAN I'M SO READY. 
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on [Tumblr](http://sgtbxrnes.co.vu)!


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